into the shack. A power line snaked among the trees and ran down a weathered board into the shack. The windows of the bus were hung with cloth that looked mostly like it was made from potato sacks. Three mongrel dogs, all with their tails arching up over their hindquarters, came toward the cruiser, barking without rancor.
”This is Wilfred’s place,“ Phillips said. ”He done it himself.“
”Handy,“ I said.
We walked across the snow-trampled, mud-mixed front lawn with the dogs roiling in a friendly fashion around our ankles. They were all about 35 pounds, tan blending to black. They were of parentage so mixed that they had regressed to basic Dog, nearly identical with mongrel dogs in China and Bolivia. Phillips banged on the door.
”Hey, Wilfred,“ he yelled, ”it’s Chief Phillips.“ The door opened slowly and stopped halfway.
”What do you want?“ someone said.
Phillips shoved the door fully open.
”Come on, come on, Wufred. This is official business.“
Phillips walked through the fully open door, and I followed him.
Pomeroy was a sturdily built, middle-sized guy with a big guardsman mustache, and brown curly hair that fell in a kind of love curl over his forehead. He was wearing jeans and a maroon sweatshirt with a hood. UMASS was printed across the front of the sweatshirt, in big letters. The first thing that I noticed about the shack was that it was neat. The second thing I noticed was the huge poster of Jill Joyce that nearly filled the wall above the bed. It was a publicity poster for a previous show, and it showed Jill in a frilly apron looking delectably confused over a steamy pot.
”Wilfred,“ Phillips said, ”this here is a guy named Spenser. He’s a detective, from Boston, and he wants to talk to you about some murder.“
”I love your technique, Chief,“ I said. ”First put him at ease.“
”I don’t know about no murder,“ Pomeroy said. I put my hand out.
Pomeroy took it without enthusiasm. He had one of those handshakes that die on contact. It was like shaking hands with a noodle. The three dogs had come in with us and repaired to various places of repose; one, presumably the alpha dog, was curled on the bed. The other two lay on the floor near the kerosene stove. Everything in the place was folded neatly, secured just right, dusted and aligned. The bed was covered with an Army blanket with hospital corners. Everywhere on the walls were pictures, mostly clipped from magazines, tacked to the exposed two-by-fours that framed the shack. The walls themselves were simply the uncovered kraft paper backing of fiberglass insulation. There were pictures of movie stars, of singers and television performers, famous politicians, athletes, writers, scientists, and business tycoons. There was a picture of Lee Iacocca clipped from a magazine cover, and one of Norman Mailer. I saw no famous detectives.
Pomeroy’s table was an upended cable spool with oilcloth tacked to the top. The oilcloth was a redcheckered pattern and shone as if it had just been washed. Pomeroy moved behind the table.
”What do you want?“ he said again. His eyes were big and soft and eager for approval.
”Just some questions,“ I said. The kerosene stove was pouring out heat. ”Mind if I take off my jacket?“
He shook his head. I took off my leather jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door where his red plaid mackinaw hung. He looked at the gun under my arm without saying anything. Phillips went and pushed the dog out of the way and sat on the bed. He left his coat on. The dog gave a short sigh and moved to the foot of the bed and turned around twice and lay down again.
”Nice poster of Jill Joyce,“ I said. ”She your favorite?“
He nodded.
”You know she’s in Boston now shooting her series.“
He nodded again.
”She didn’t get killed,“ he said. ”I’d a seen it on TV if she got killed.“
”No,“ I said, ”she’s fine.“
”You know her?“ Pomeroy said.
”Yes,“ I said.
We were quiet. One of the dogs sleeping by the stove got up and went over and sniffed at Phillips’ shoe. Phillips pushed it away with his foot. I saw Pomeroy’s eyes shift nervously.
”Don’t be rude to the dog,“ I said to Phillips. ”Dog lives here and you don’t.“
Phillips got two bright spots on his pale cheeks. ”Who the hell you talking to?“ he said. His hand brushed instinctively against his gun butt. I turned my head slowly and looked at him without saying anything.
”I don’t like dogs,“ he said.
I looked at him for another moment, then turned back to Pomeroy.
”Do you know her?“ I said.
”Jill?“
”Yeah.“
He shook his head slowly. ”No. I’m a big fan of hers, but I don’t know her.“
”I heard you did know her,“ I said. Pomeroy looked past me nervously.
”No, honest.“
”I heard you knew her pretty well,“ I said. ”Guy named Randall says you knew her.“
